


The Last Summer

by CumberCurlyGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Beards (Facial Hair), Caretaking, Devotion, Established Relationship, Facial Shaving, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, Love, M/M, Neither of them ends up alone., Old Married Couple, Retirement, Retirement!lock, True Love, sussex cottage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 11:32:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15706380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: Sherlock lovingly cares for a bedridden John in their Sussex cottage.  John reveals that he's always wanted to grow a beard.





	The Last Summer

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about deep love and devotion and how these often manifest in the smallest, most mundane actions. After my tears dried, I found myself uplifted by the depth of the love that our boys have for each other. And they are our "boys" no matter how old they are. I hope you will feel the same way.
> 
> Special thanks to my beta [ wistfulpisces.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wistfulpisces)

**_12 June_ **

Sherlock dips the razor in a bowl of warm water that sits on the table next to the bed, and holding John’s head with his other hand, drags it over his cheek, leaving a strip of pink in the layer of white foam that covers it. He repeats the action, widening the wrinkled but now hairless strip of exposed flesh. John’s eyes are closed as he allows Sherlock to shave him. Sherlock dips the razor in the water again and continues. He carefully applies it to John’s upper lip, his chin, his neck, tilting his head back to reach under his jaw. His touch is gentle and slow. His hand gnarled but still steady. This is a ritual they have performed every morning for some time now since John became too weak to shave and bathe himself. Sherlock knows he’s not actually too weak yet, but he needs to do this and John lets him.

When almost all of the foam is gone, Sherlock takes a flannel, dips it in the water and wipes off the remaining flecks. John opens his eyes and Sherlock smiles at him, then kisses him lightly on the nose. “All done.” John smiles back and reaches up to feel his now smooth face. Sherlock hands him his glasses.

“A bath, and then if you are up to it we’ll go outside after lunch.”

“Yeah, that sounds nice.”  

Sherlock leaves the room and returns with an armful of towels. Two more trips are needed to bring the basins of water and other supplies. He helps John remove his T-shirt. Carefully pulling it over his John’s head he tosses it to the floor. He tugs the pyjamas down and wriggles them over John’s bottom and off over his feet. They join the T-shirt on the floor. John’s breathing sounds laboured as Sherlock manoeuvres towels underneath him.

John is now sitting naked against the towel covered pillows, shivering a bit. Sherlock drapes his lower body with towels he has warmed in the clothes dryer and sits on the bed beside him.  Wetting a sponge in the soapy water he starts at John’s shoulders, gently rubbing it over the skin, always moving toward the centre of his body, to assist circulation. After each area of skin is soaped, Sherlock changes sponges and rinses. He works with practised care. He washes and dries his back, his arms, his stomach, and so on. All the way to John’s toes. He does this with reverence. He has loved this body for so many years, knows every inch by heart. Cherishes it. Sherlock is struck by how little difference there is between how he washes John now and how he used to cover him with kisses not so long ago.   

They have a woman who comes to help with the housework and cooking, and a man to take care of the grounds and tend the bees under Sherlock’s direction. A nurse visits twice a week, but Sherlock won’t let anyone other than Rosie and himself care for John.

As Sherlock removes the towels and helps him into fresh clothing, John says, “You know Sherlock, I always wanted to grow a beard.”

Sherlock is surprised and stops mid-way through putting a sock on John’s foot.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“You don’t like facial hair. Remember when you told me you like your doctors clean shaven?”  

“What are you talking about?”

“After you came back, you made me shave my moustache.”   _After you came back_. There is no need to elaborate. Sherlock knows what this refers to -- when Sherlock came back to John after two years of being dead. Came back to John and found him with Mary.  

“John, that was over forty years ago.”

“Yeah, I know love, but I just never brought it up again.  Wanted to keep you happy.” John chuckles, but this leads to a fit of coughing.  

Sherlock pats his back until the fit ends, then looks at him long and hard. “John, are there other things that you wanted but didn’t ask? Things that would have made you happy?” He is alarmed that his husband would have kept anything from him.

“Sherlock, no. It’s really a silly little thing. And I have always been happy with you. Christ, you are my whole world and I wouldn’t change anything.”

“It’s not silly John. Not at all. You’ll have your beard. You’ll look like Father Christmas.”

John gives Sherlock a look that seems to say _I won’t have time._

 _“_ Father Christmas,” Sherlock says firmly.

 

**_16 June_ **

Sherlock holds up a mirror and John runs his hand across his face as he turns it side to side. His face is wrinkled and spotted but John’s eyes are still the colour of the ocean and they still twinkle when he smiles. A slight growth of white stubble covers his cheeks, upper lip and chin.

“Well on your way,” Sherlock says approvingly.  

“It’s itchy,” John says.

“The price we pay for beauty,” Sherlock sighs with mock sadness, as he takes the mirror back and places it on the bedside table that is cluttered with containers of John’s medications before leaning down for a kiss. He thinks briefly of the container of pills that is hidden from John’s view in the drawer, under a catalogue of beekeeping supplies.

It’s raining, so instead of sitting in the garden, Sherlock plays his violin for John until he falls asleep.  

 

**_7 July_ **

Rosie brings their twin granddaughters, Emma and Rachel to visit on John’s birthday.  

“What’s this?” Rosie exclaims when she sees the white hair covering her father’s cheeks.

“I’m growing a beard apparently. Sherlock’s orders.”

“Well, it suits you. Should have done it years ago,” she says, stroking it affectionately.

It’s a beautiful clear day and they sit in chairs in John’s favourite spot under the oak tree near the pond and have cake and lemonade. The girls pick flowers and throw pebbles into the pond. Emma catches a frog and brings it to Sherlock and John. Encased in her small hands, its head is protruding from the opening made by her thumb and forefinger as she presents it to them excitedly. “Look Papa Sherlock, Papa John!”

They smile at her and John says, “If you kiss him, he may turn into a Prince, like in the fairy tales.”

“No, he won’t,” says Emma, looking at Sherlock, as if for validation. “Frogs can’t turn into princes.”

He gives her a conspiratorial wink and a shake of his head, _Of course not, we know better, but let the less logical beings have their delusions._

“You never know,” John says. “He might be a magical frog, or you might have a magical kiss.”

“What would I do with a prince?” Emma says. “Princes are boring. I want to do an experiment on my frog. Can we Papa Sherlock?”

“No, let’s let this one go. I promise I’ll find a different experiment for us. But Papa John is right, sometimes a kiss can be magic.”

“We don’t believe in magic,” Emma says, frowning. Sherlock has taught her well.

“There are different kinds of magic,” Sherlock says, taking John’s hand. “When Papa John kissed me ages ago, it was a kind of magic. It was like I was a frog and he turned me into a prince.”

John laughs at this and his laughter makes Sherlock’s heart sing for a moment.

“Let the poor thing go,” Rosie says. Emma sighs, and takes the frog back to the edge of the pond.

Sherlock and Rosie leave the girls to play in the yard and take John back to the cottage to rest.  

They get him into bed, taking great pains with the arrangement of pillows. When he is settled, they give him his afternoon medications.  

“Remember when you were little, Rosie, and you would sneak into bed with us?” John asks.

“Of course, Poppy,” Rosie says, using her childhood name for John.

“I used to love to wake to find you there. I’d pretend to be cross, of course, but it's one of my favourite memories.”

Sherlock and Rosie exchange a glance and an unspoken understanding passes between them. They toe off their shoes and slide into bed on either side, cocooning John between them, just as he and Sherlock used to do with Rosie on lazy weekend mornings when they woke to discover her in their bed back at Baker Street. Three hands are entwined on John’s stomach as they lie together and they rise and fall with his breathing.  

“This has been a lovely birthday,” John says. “I couldn’t ask for more.”  Soon he is asleep.

 

**_15 July_ **

“It’s really coming in nicely,” Sherlock says as he sits beside John with electric clippers in hand, trimming his beard so that it is neat, with defined edges.  It's about a half an inch long now. Mostly white but peppered thoroughly with grey, so that overall it looks just a shade darker than the hair on his head, of which he still has quite a bit.   _It matches the dark circles under his eyes_.

He finishes trimming under John’s neck, then holds up the mirror for him to approve.

John nods as he looks at himself, “I like it. But tell me honestly, do you hate it?”

Sherlock huffs, “Of course not, I love it. If it is a part of you, I love it. You look handsome.”

Putting the mirror down, he places his hands on either side of John’s face, gives him a warm kiss on the lips, and then rubs his face lightly against his cheek.

“It feels good too.”

“No danger of beard-burn these days,” John says, wistfully.

Sherlock finds that he has no response to the truth of this statement. His mind is searching for the right words, words that will make things better, but can’t find any. Instead, he wraps his long arms around John and pulls him close against his chest. Then he finds them. “Oh, John, I love you so much.”

“I love you too Sherlock.”

They hold each other for a long while.  

 

**_18 July_ **

“I really miss having a proper bath,” John says, as Sherlock is getting him dressed after bathing him in bed. “I’m not complaining, really.  It’s just one of those things you take for granted…”

 

**_20 July_ **

Sherlock turns off the taps and checks the temperature of the water. Warm but not hot. The scent of lavender permeates the air from the bath salts he’s added to the water. _Perfect_. He checks to make sure that there are warm towels on the chair by the bathtub before lighting the candles he has placed in several locations. On the countertop, on the seat of the loo, on the floor. He pulls the shades so that the bathroom is now lit only with flickering candlelight. He takes off his dressing gown and drapes it over the back of the chair, then walks to the bedroom naked.

John is sitting up in bed watching telly. He turns his head as Sherlock enters and smiles broadly as he looks his husband up and down. Sherlock knows what he sees. He sees an old man, still lean, but wrinkled and sagging instead of smooth and sculpted. Hair, what is left of it, still worn long with dark silver curls at the nape of his neck. Only his fine cheekbones and startling blue eyes are unchanged from the early days of their relationship.  

“What the bloody hell…?”

“We’re going to take a bath.”

“Seriously. Take a bath. In the bathtub?”

“Yes.”

John just shakes his head, grinning.  

“What did I ever do to deserve you?”

“As I always tell you, you were you – that’s what you did.”

John takes off his glasses and Sherlock helps him out of his T-shirt and pyjama bottoms then pulls his legs over the side of the bed and moves to lift him.

“No, wait. Let me try.”

Sherlock pulls John to his feet and puts his arm around him.  After a few slow steps, John’s knees buckle and he sags against Sherlock, breathing hard and shallow.

“I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry, I thought maybe I could…”

“Hush.” Sherlock lifts John bridal style and carries him to the bathroom. _He’s so light._ When John sees the candles and smells the lavender, he jokes, “Trying to seduce me, darling?” Sherlock laughs and places him carefully in the water. Then he steps in and settles behind him, one leg on either side, then leans back and pulls John against his chest, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.

John sighs. “This feels fantastic.”

Sherlock hums his agreement, as he caresses John’s shoulders, lingering on the old scar, tracing it with his finger as he has done thousands of times. He knows its ridges and contours by heart. “If you like, we can do this every time,” he says.

“Yeah,” murmurs John.

They soak in silence for a while. Then John says, “I’m not afraid.”

“You are the bravest, strongest man I know,” Sherlock replies.

John reaches up and clasps Sherlock’s hand against his chest, squeezing it.

“I _am_ afraid,” Sherlock adds.  

“I've got no regrets, not even Mary because without her we wouldn’t have Rosie,” John says. “I’ve had the most amazing life. _We_ have had the most amazing life. Spending the last forty-three years with you has been a privilege. And now...It is what it is.” 

 _What it is, is shit,_ thinks Sherlock, but doesn’t say it. He’s glad that John can’t see his face and the tears rolling down his cheeks and dripping from his chin before disappearing into the bath water.

 

**_2 August_ **

Rosie phones while John is sleeping. He sleeps most of the time now.

“How is Poppy?”

“He has good days and bad days. He’s sleeping now.”

“What do the doctors say?”

“That he’s strong, except for his heart of course,” Sherlock says, with some bitterness.

“Is he in pain?

“No, not much, we can be grateful for that. Grateful to whom I don’t fucking know. God?" he snorts derisively. "But I’m glad all the same.  Mostly he’s just weak.”

“You’ll call me so I can be there, right?”

“Of course,” he lies.

“How are you Daddums?’

Silence.

“Daddums?”

“I love you Rosie.”

 

**_8 August_ **

It is a pleasant sunny day. Not too hot, and Sherlock takes John to the garden. He has arranged cushions under the oak tree and they are lying side by side. The blue sky is peeking through the leaves of the oak tree. Birds are chirping, and there is a gentle breeze that whispers through the grasses and cattails at the edge of the pond punctuated by an occasional croaking of frogs. Sherlock is reading _The Count of Monte Cristo_ out loud. He only reads books that John knows and loves. This way John can drift away and come back, without losing any of the story.

Sherlock finishes a chapter and closes the book. Rolling to his side he kisses John’s cheek, now fully bearded.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, this is nice.”

“I’ll be right back,” Sherlock says, rising suddenly.  

After a few minutes, he returns with a handful of small purple flowers. Kneeling beside John, he begins to place the flowers in John’s beard.

“What are you doing Sherlock?”

“I don’t even know,” says Sherlock laughing. “But let’s send a picture to Rosie and the girls.”

He finishes festooning John’s beard with flowers and sticks one behind his ear for good measure.  Pulling out his mobile, he orders John to smile before snapping a photograph and sending it to Rosie, Emma, and Rachel.

 

**_15 August_ **

Sherlock wakes to John’s laboured breathing. It is quick and shallow and _different_. He rises up on his elbow in alarm. John’s eyes are open, but only halfway and there are beads of sweat on his brow.  

“John.”

No answer.

“John!” he says more loudly, frightened now.

John turns his head.

“Sherlock,” he breathes faintly.

Sherlock reaches for his mobile in a panic.

“No, don’t.”

“Oh, John.”

“Garden,” John says, with difficulty.

Sherlock rises and pulls on his dressing gown. He bends to kiss John’s clammy forehead before heading to the kitchen to write a note for Rosie. He writes quickly but has composed it in his mind ahead of time and knows exactly what he wants to say. He folds the note and leaves it on the kitchen table, then rushes back to the bedroom to get John.

He pauses for a moment to retrieve the container of pills from the bedside table, the one hidden under the catalogue, and he slips it into his pocket.  

He picks up John and walks barefoot out of the cottage into the garden to the oak tree beside the pond. He spreads a blanket in the grass and lays John gently down on it before lying down beside him. John’s eyes are closed but he is breathing. Sherlock curls beside him, taking his hand and resting his head against John’s shoulder. The morning sun is filtering through the leaves, making dapples on John’s bearded face.  The air is cool and smells of the fresh cut hay from the neighbouring property. The sun moves slowly across the sky as they lie there.

“Love you,” says John almost inaudibly. “No regrets.”

“I love you John,” Sherlock says, pressing a kiss into his shoulder. “You have saved me so many times. I’m so sorry I can’t save you now.” Sherlock’s chest clenches in silent grief as tears pour from his eyes.  He can’t keep his shoulders from shaking. This pain is catastrophic and utterly complete, making the physical torture he endured in Serbia years ago seem like a paper cut.

After a while, Sherlock doesn’t know exactly how long because time seems to have stopped,  he reaches into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulls out his mobile and the container of pills. Through his tears, he sends Rosie a text.

SH:  It’s time.  I’m sorry.

SH:  I love you.

He opens the cap of the pill container, empties it into his mouth and swallows. Wrapping his arms around John’s still body, he closes his eyes and waits.

 

**Epilogue**

 

_Dearest Rosie,_

_I hope that in time you will understand. After loving your father for so long, I would not survive alone. I don’t want to.  He was the best man I’ve ever known and I’m so lucky to have earned his love. He is my everything._

_It has been a privilege being your other father and watching you grow into the wonderful woman and mother that you are. I’m sorry to have let you down by leaving you, Emma and Rachel this way._

_You will find all the necessary paperwork in my office.  You own the cottage now and all of John’s writings, of course. It is my hope that you will let the girls read the record of our life together that John so diligently and poetically recorded._

_He loved you will all his heart, as do I._

_Goodbye Bumblebee,_

_SH_

 

**Author's Note:**

> You may be interested in my June submission for the #Always1895 challenge, [ Morning Bliss. It is a very short fic that serves somewhat as a prequel to this one and describes Rosie as a child climbing into John and Sherlock's bed - creating the memory appearing in the above work.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14814434)


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